


Of Shades and Shields

by Ravenheart



Series: The King's Guard [2]
Category: Black Sails
Genre: Angst, Attempted Murder, Hurt/Comfort, King Silver, Longing, M/M, Minor Character Death, Pining, Royal Guard Flint, Unresolved Sexual Tension, darker than intended but not as dark as it might sound, the many layers of John Silver
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-12
Updated: 2020-05-12
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:08:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24136381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ravenheart/pseuds/Ravenheart
Summary: He heard Silver sigh so deeply that he had to look at him once more. Half-disappointment, half-resignation. "You wear those words like armour. You do know that, right?""Excuse me?" He swallowed, sensing his unusual desire to forgo confrontation would go ignored."Your Majesty," he copied Flint's tone, and the judgmental eyebrow wasn't lost on him. "When we first met, it was more blade than armour. Hearing those words from your lips almost felt like an insult.” An oddly fond tilt to his mouth. “Your Majesty, because you thought I was anything but. Your Majesty, ready to slice my head off if I ever stepped out of line. But now," a contemplative look on his face, "Now it's your shield, more than any smith’s creation could ever hope to be. And what I cannot fathom," he licked his lips, gaze intent on his, "is what it is meant to protect you from."(Or: a prequel to Of Cloaks and Crowns involving one of the attempts on Silver's life, lingering gazes, and the mortifying ordeal of being known).
Relationships: Captain Flint | James McGraw/John Silver, very vaguely implied Jack/Anne
Series: The King's Guard [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1741360
Comments: 11
Kudos: 78





	Of Shades and Shields

**Author's Note:**

> hope y'all enjoy this one. thank you for the love you've shown this series <3.

Flint knew he was being paranoid, and yet he couldn't convince his mind to stop. A sensation of wrongness had been clinging to his skin all day, and he'd been unable to shed it come nightfall. His senses remained on high alert, as if they knew of a battle his conscious mind ignored, and thus sleep had become impossible.

Resigned, he began making his way to the king's chambers. He'd take a quick look to quell his unfounded suspicions and then he'd finally be able to get some much needed rest. 

The night was quiet around him, and he made sure to blend with its stillness; only the faintest murmur of fabric could be heard, not even his breath audible as he traced the familiar steps.

A lifetime later, he reached the hallway only to feel his stomach drop at once. There was no guard standing outside the king's door, and no echoes of someone's footsteps on patrol.

He had been left unprotected.

He cursed himself for being right, wishing it had all been nothing but a foolish fixation of his. The sight of the imposing wooden door so bare and defenceless made his skin crawl. Determined, he reached for his blade and walked on. 

Once he was closer to the door, he noticed one of the guards lying face-down in the corner to his far right, his blood an unmistakable pool that coated the upper-half of the body. He tried not to jump to conclusions at the glaring absence of the second guard.

Taking one lone, calming breath, he sneaked into the room and hoped he wasn't too late.

There was no mistaking the scene unfolding before him; a large man had Silver pinned against the wall closest to the bed, their figures a mess of limbs and curses as they struggled. The tactician in Flint knew that trying to get the attacker off him alive could provide valuable information later on, especially if he was part of a bigger plot. Tactics, however, did not account for Flint's other side; the one that, once triggered, could not be stopped or reasoned with, and was quicker than lightning. 

Without hesitation, he swiftly breached the distance between them, dagger cool and ready. He was overcome by a wild and all-encompassing need to destroy whoever had dared harm John Silver, yet he was too focused on the task at hand to actually dwell on the implications behind said impulse.

As certain as death, Flint buried his blade at the same time the traitor turned to look at him, vicious eyes widening at the unexpected intrusion. A corner of his mind registered that he knew the killer's face, but his hand was undeterred; if anything, oil had met fire. There was a wet, awful sound as the weapon went further into the guard's back, yet Flint found it sweeter than the most well-crafted melody. Was there a more fitting way for a traitor to die than with a knife to his back?

He sneered as the attacker crumbled to the floor, blood dripping down the blade and snaking a pattern down his white sleeve, but he was forgotten as soon as his eyes found Silver. Under the shaking candlelight, he gave him an assessing once-over, cataloging all the places where a fatal blow might have been struck. He had the barest hint of a graze on his cheek and his collar was rumpled and torn, but his neck was thankfully unharmed. Flint had a sweet second of bliss before his chest froze as he caught sight of a worryingly dark stain near his abdomen. 

Silver smiled reassuringly, as if Flint were the wounded one in need of care. If he could have removed himself from the context entirely, he would have appreciated how the dim light painted Silver's lips with the softest of strokes, gentle and beautiful in his attempts at comfort. But despite the promise in Silver’s quiet lips, Flint saw him rest a shaky and stained hand against the wall and he knew it was a merciful lie.

His mouth turned bloody, his beard only partially hiding the obvious drops trailing down his chin. He shook his head, looking up at Flint with a mix of wonder and amusement. “Of course it’s you,” he whispered faintly. “It’s always you.”

Then his eyes fluttered shut and he fell forward, Flint catching him just as the severity of that damned blow made itself known.

"Stay with me," he urged, dragging him to the bed as gently as possible and laying him across it before turning his head and yelling for help as he tore his own shirt to try to stop the bleeding.

"Hmm." His eyes were half-lidded, his gaze errant.

"No," he warned. "You don't get to die on me, you shit." Apparently, desperate times made one forget about propriety.

"Want the pleasure of killing me yourself?" Silver slurred, and under different circumstances it would have made Flint snort, but there was nothing but pain as he watched Silver close his eyes fully.

"Don't. Just—Stay awake. _Talk_." His voice cracked at the end.

Nothing. 

Silver, silent and still.

After that, Flint's perception of events faded like sand between his fingers, only there long enough to be held for a moment before it was gone, leaving him lost and empty-handed.

His throat was raw, as if he'd been screaming for hours rather than seconds, and his hands were red and slippery and _shaking_. His breath wouldn't come at all, his vision blurry and unreliable.

He felt someone try to push him aside and watched himself raise his dagger, ready to strike whoever so much as thought of standing between him and Silver.

Bonny's voice broke through the haze, enough for him to put down the blade when he made out the word doctor.

He was roughly taken to the side, her face angry and pitiful at once. "Control yourself, Flint," she barked, and he wanted to scream at her hypocrisy. She had never known control a single day in her _life_ , how _dare_ she—How would _she_ feel if Lord Rackham—?

"He's alive," she assured him. "Now move the fuck outta the way so they can fix 'im."

"It was a guard," he spit out, parts of himself coming back by bits. "A fucking guard attacked him."

"Shit." Bonny frowned, then looked away from him and said, "Everyone but Howell, get the fuck out. Hands, guard the fucking door." How many people were there in the room? How much time had passed? Flint could not tell.

" _I_ should be giving the orders," he protested, not with reproach but frustration; how could he be so fucking useless in such a crucial moment? "I want everyone questioned. Nobody gets close to him until they've been interrogated. The cooks—"

"Flint, you're in no state to be doing nothing." She thinned her lips and hesitated, then grabbed him by the arm—why was he half-naked?—as she pulled up a chair next to the bed; next to Silver, who was still being tended to.

"Stay with 'im. I'll guard the door myself."

"And why the fuck should I trust you?"

She sneered at him, not offended but clearly thinking him stupid. "You was so out of it I could've killed you both and got away with it. I didn't." Whatever she saw on his face made her add, in a soft voice he would have never associated with her, "You did good."

Then she went away, leaving him staring blankly at Howell's moving hands and Silver's slow-beating chest.

*

He had no place in his life for shame, and yet he wasn't sure what other word could describe what he was currently feeling as he sat by the king's bedside, unaware of anything beyond his sleeping form and the reassuring murmur of his breath.

The absolute lack of control he'd displayed was inadmissible. He would have destroyed anyone under his command who'd shown even half the unprofessionalism he had; how could he hope to lead his guards and protect his king like this?

And all of it because he'd been close to losing Silver. Not a king, or a legend, or even a man. _Silver_. There was now an awareness that he was crafting himself a category of his own in Flint's mind, one beyond duty or rank or self-interest. 

Or, more accurately, he was worming his way into a category Flint didn't think anyone could ever hope to be part of again.

It was not a comforting realization.

*

Flint was awakened by a breezy laugh. He froze, trying to remember why anyone would be close to him while he slept, and promptly enough the memories came rushing forward, ugly and misshapen.

His eyes snapped open, his gaze immediately on Silver, who was lying in bed with his head turned to him and a small smile on his face. The mess of stains on the otherwise perfectly exquisite sheets made his stomach hurt and his hand itch with the need to touch and make sure he was truly alright.

"Hello," Silver drawled, tone awfully cheerful for someone who'd been betrayed and attacked and almost killed in his sleep. "You look like shit."

"Thank you," he rasped out, briefly looking out the window to see the sun beginning to rise. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have fallen asleep." He rubbed at his face, blinking the sleep out of his eyes and trying to collect himself. _Shit._ He'd fallen asleep _in the king's chambers._

If anyone found out—

And he was barely wearing any clothes—

He needed to get out of there.

He also needed to start an investigation at once. 

He was, however, troubled by the mere thought of leaving Silver's bedside. Hesitantly, he asked, "How are you, truly? How serious is it?" He vaguely recalled Howell nodding at him and spilling comforting words, but he could not for the life of him remember what he'd said beyond _alive._

"Less serious than death, and not nearly as permanent as a lost limb." Silver met his eye, speaking solemnly, "I owe you more lives than I can ever repay, and yet I would gladly attempt to do so anyway." 

Flint didn't want to dwell on what could have been lost the previous night or the times before; even now that he knew Silver was safe, it hurt to look at his unguarded blue eyes and his tousled curls. He didn't look weak, never that, because he wasn't, but he looked open and warm and trusting, and Flint wanted to build a wall around the bed so that he'd never see treason again.

"You owe me nothing," he protested, sitting straighter. "It is my duty, Your Majesty. And yet I nearly failed. If I hadn't—"

"I seem to recall that you were not on watch last night. You call it duty, but what could have possibly compelled you to visit the king's chambers at such an interesting hour?" There was no accusation in his tone that Flint could catch; only curiosity, and an undercurrent of something else that he couldn’t hope to name.

"I had a bad feeling, is all. Decided a quick round would do no harm." It was the honest truth, and yet it sounded both underwhelming and unbelievable.

"A feeling," he echoed, cocking his head and resting it further into the pillow. "Well, Flint, your _feeling_ saved my life. Again."

"But it was a guard under my command." He exhaled harshly. "It's my fault—"

"Do _not_ ," Silver stopped him, "attribute yourself the crimes of another. Especially not that of treason."

Any other day, Flint would have argued further. But sitting in front of him with the memory of death on his fingertips, he couldn't find it in him to clash with Silver. He felt like a blade sharpened for too long, a heart squeezed to the point of rupture. If he dared voice even a single private thought, he feared the brand of damage he might inflict.

He merely clenched his jaw, looking away from him and towards the door as he mumbled, "As you wish, Your Majesty."

He heard Silver sigh so deeply that he had to look at him once more. Half-disappointment, half-resignation. "You wear those words like armour. You do know that, right?"

"Excuse me?" He swallowed, sensing his unusual desire to forgo confrontation would go ignored.

" _Your Majesty_ ," he copied Flint's tone, and the judgmental eyebrow wasn't lost on him. "When we first met, it was more blade than armour. Hearing those words from your lips almost felt like an insult.” An oddly fond tilt to his mouth. “ _Your Majesty,_ because you thought I was anything but. _Your Majesty_ , ready to slice my head off if I ever stepped out of line. But now," a contemplative look on his face, "Now it's your shield, more than any smith’s creation could ever hope to be. And what I cannot fathom," he licked his lips, gaze intent on his, "is what it is meant to protect you from."

"Nonsense," he scoffed, shifting in his seat, unwilling to examine Silver's assessment. "What else would I call you?"

" _Silver_ ," he said with strength he shouldn’t have had after the night before. "For fuck's sake, just call me _Silver_. Hell, you could even call me John."

Flint couldn’t help but stare. “And give the court an excuse to start building a pyre? Would you like me to fetch some rope myself, too?”

Silver rolled his eyes, but he was smiling at him. A wide, unabashed smile. “What, exactly, would they be condemning you for?”

"Forgetting myself? Being painfully overfamiliar? A nobody, thinking himself of enough regard to address his king so freely."

He opened his mouth, the words clearly ready on his lips, yet he shook his head and instead said, "Must you be so dramatic? It's only a name, not a marriage proposal."

Flint was not touching the last bit of that utterance, not for all the gold in the world. The first part, though, was such a blatant lie that he couldn't believe Silver had said it at all.

"You of all people should know that names are never _just_ anything." A man who owed half his reputation to the feeling of his name on one's tongue knew better than to discredit its power or its importance.

Silver's hesitation made him believe he'd finally come to his senses, only for him to shrug and say, "Then let them talk. They seem under the misguided illusion that in this grand narrative I am a glorious hero that must not be tainted by the villain they have convinced themselves you are."

"Would you not agree with their assessment?"

Silver's eyes danced over his face. "Why define the world so sharply, when nature allows for so many shades?" 

He wondered if Silver truly understood what he was saying; if he grasped both what darkness gifted and what it would claim in return. Flint wore darkness like an old coat, but that did not mean he no longer felt its weight upon his shoulders.

And yet even as he worried, part of him wanted to extend his hand in welcome.

Before he could think of a proper retort, the door burst open, Bonny's bored face a welcomed interruption to the loaded conversation.

"You look like shit," was all she said.

There was quorum on that, if nothing else.

***

The days that followed were a mix of restlessness and anxiety that threatened what was left of Flint's sanity. The guard he'd killed was worthless scum of no relevance, yet it was almost certain that he'd been acting on someone else's behalf. Whether the threat came from Vane's kingdom to the South or Rogers' to the East, Lord Rackham had yet to find out. He favored the Rogers theory, but Flint suspected it had more to do with Rackham's contempt for the Eastern shit, as well as his undisguised admiration for the Southern King, than any solid proof.

He was far from fooled by Rackham's omission of the main suspect when the matter was raised during council, but he was tacitly grateful for his caution. The possibility that someone much closer to home was attempting regicide was not lost on either of them, but they knew better than to voice it aloud. One could never be too careful, especially when neither Dufresne nor Hornigold seemed inclined to weigh in on the matter in any way that could be considered helpful. Then again, what could be expected of those two? Dufresne had lost his touch as quickly as Flint had his temper, and Hornigold was no better.

At present, all Flint could do was hope that his onslaught of precautions and security measures would deter a new attack. And since the people he trusted with the king's life had been brutally reduced, it was only natural for the biggest burden to fall on him.

Bonny, unofficially his second in command, did not question the extra duties he bestowed upon himself, nor did she say a word when Flint wandered down the king's hallway during her joined night watches with Read. He wondered if Silver knew just how valuable Rackham's loyalty was, since Bonny's was very much an extension of it. Maybe he ought to suggest that some show of generosity be extended, if only to be on the safe side. It wouldn't hurt to try and encourage dialogue with the South, either.

Hands and Bones were the only other two certainties; Flint would not have trusted them with _his_ life, nor would he have had more than a passing conversation with them unless heavily pressed, but Silver was a different matter altogether.

In the process of trying to convert others, Bones had inadvertently converted himself. As for Hands, Flint did not care to find out the details of how it had come about; his devotion to Silver was plain to see, and that was enough.

Long John Silver indeed.

***

He trailed after Silver, sun bright and hot upon their backs, and hoped his own exhaustion would not show. He hadn't slept soundly since before the attack, and it was starting to pull at his muscles and settle over his bones. His mind was far from untouched, too, even if he would never have admitted to it. Every corner seemed designed for murder, every shadow fit for treason, and Flint's imagination kept supplying ever more creative ways of finding Silver dead.

"Are you getting slower with age?" Silver teased, his current speed and command with the crutch leaving Flint quietly impressed, especially considering the uneven soil of the woods. He'd become quite skilled, even if he insisted on forgoing the crutch and wearing his prosthetic instead when anyone other than Flint was around.

"What is the point of going for a walk in the woods, against my explicit and sensible advice, might I add, if you're just going to rush through it?"

"I indulged your request for a whole month. I refuse to be locked away any longer." As if nature were in agreement with him, a gentle breeze made his curls sway, welcoming.

"It worked, did it not? It's not safe for you to be out like this." He'd lost count of how many times he'd expressed his opposition already.

"Please. Like you didn't send out decoys and false trails to ensure our safety."

"True, but you'd be mistaken to place such faith in those measures. They're fallible. You must know this." The density of the forest and the remoteness of their location seemed like an ideal ground for betrayal. "Couldn't you just remain safely within castle walls until we find who is truly behind this?"

Silver turned around, and Flint's delayed stop left him standing a little too close, his blue eyes ernest as he spoke, "You misunderstand me. My faith lies not with the strategy," he quirked an eyebrow, "but with the man behind it."

He had a hard time keeping the praise from warming every bit of him, but he tried not to let it show. "Is that wise?" Trust was such a fickle thing; so easily broken, never to be the same again.

Silver smirked and turned away. "Shut up and walk, Flint."

*

Silver knew he was acting like the spoiled shit he'd stopped being a hundred life lessons ago, yet he could not help it. Being cloistered had lost its charm very quickly, and to remain so any longer would have sent the wrong message. Long John Silver did not hide in the safety of his chambers when trouble came knocking; he opened the door and snapped its neck. That was what the legend said, anyway. He'd yet to be put to the test in that regard.

That he'd even allowed Flint to shelter him for such a long time was only due to what Silver had stood to gain, and it had nothing to do with safety and everything to do with the near constant presence of ginger hair and green eyes. The territory he'd gained in the past month would have put the most renown strategists to shame; he'd even managed to get Flint to call him _Silver_ when it was just the two of them, and Silver hadn't been the same since.

A man could be honest sometimes, even if only in his head.

"We're nearly there, I think. Ten more minutes, perhaps." He was genuinely looking forward to the change of scenery, and sitting down by the stream and letting his muscles relax seemed like the perfect choice. He was trying to convince himself that Flint would not be disgusted when he was met with the ugly sight of his stump.

When Flint didn't answer, he looked over his shoulder only to do a double take at his serious expression. "Flint?" He asked, stopping as soon as he did.

Flint raised a hand to signal him to be quiet, and Silver forced himself to breathe normally, even as his mind provided a series of highly unhelpful scenarios in the blink of an eye. If Flint ended up hurt because of his selfish idiocy—

The snap of a branch, and then Flint's entire weight was on him, his hands quickly taking hold of him as he pushed him out of the way and against a tree, the crutch falling from his grasp in surprise. He waited with bated breath, unable to see the source of the threat. 

He hated this part; hated depending on someone to defend him, hated admitting that he needed help. He knew everyone thought it normal for a king, and yet he would have done without a guard if he could have. There was no denying that he treasured his own life, however, and even he could see the merits of having a dangerous shadow when the world seemed hell-bent on burying Silver before his hair had a chance to match his name. 

He still didn't have to like it.

In his current position, he had nothing to concentrate on other than Flint's profile. _If this is how I die, then at least I perished to a nice view._ Did that count as optimism? He thought it did.

When Flint loosened his grip and his face softened slightly, Silver whispered, "What was it?" 

Without looking at him, he murmured, "A deer."

Flint didn't move, either still trying to adjust to the non-threat or lost in the wonder of seeing a deer up close without hunting in mind, so Silver allowed himself to relax in his hold. And once he did that, well. It was all too easy to let his eyes properly take in the ginger freckles on his cheek and the beads of sweat clinging to his gorgeous beard. If he concentrated, he could even feel the faint trace of his breath against his skin.

Fuck, he wanted him so badly. To raise his hand and brush that soft-looking hair away from his face, letting it linger meaningfully. To catch his gaze and not be forced to look away; to indulge in the mere act of _looking_ at him, freely and without restraint, so that he might map every inch of his skin and keep it in his chest forever.

He wanted to bring his lips to that jaw and let his tongue and teeth carve patterns into the tender flesh of his neck, red and raw and real.

God, could he but rid himself of name and rank and let his desire loose. There would be no end to the fire his hunger could start.

It was torture, standing so close, feeling his body against his, and yet being unable to touch him the way he wanted to.

He took a shaky breath as Flint finally turned to look at him, and that just brought every feeling to the surface twice as strongly. He forced his eyes not to linger on his lips and hold his gaze instead, but Flint's own expression made his breath catch. He waited for a moment, wishing, hoping it wasn't his own foolish heart seeing heat where there was none—needing Flint's initiative like he'd needed little else in life.

And yet, just like in so many other realms of his own cursed existence, he was bound to be disappointed.

Flint retreated swiftly, his hands burned by Silver's desire. "Apologies, Your Majesty."

There it was.

The shield, up.

It made him both angry and frustrated, but a part of him was nevertheless stupidly vibrating with possibility. To shield oneself in the face of nothing but a wanting gaze spoke of a peculiar brand of fear—but it was not necessarily rejection.

In fact, he might have even dared to call it the opposite. After all, wasn't it natural to shy away from one's desires when they became too overwhelming? He just had to figure out how to let Flint know that, whatever wants lived in his heart, Silver could double them. But how to do so without being forceful? Without allowing duty to muddle the waters of emotion? Even if he suspected mutual interest, nothing was certain, and he couldn't bare the thought of Flint indulging his attention out of obligation rather than genuine reciprocity. He'd have to set the stage for opportunity and hope Flint would take it sooner or later.

But he was getting ahead of himself; no plans could be crafted until he crossed the bridge that his leg had become. Only then could hope, or whatever else the stars had in store, stir in his chest.

Wanting Flint to understand exactly what he thought of his shield, he said, "Let's keep walking, _guard_." 

The regret that flashed in his eyes before he carefully locked it away settled warmly over Silver.

The stream awaited.

*

If Flint hadn't been so opposed to hurting Silver, he might have genuinely contemplated knocking him out and carrying him back to the castle to spare himself the mortification of sharing the same space. He'd almost given himself away because he was too paranoid to distinguish a deer from genuine danger. Thoughts scattered, he'd been too slow to move away, and when he'd turned back and seen Silver's eyes on him, he'd just—

No.

He wasn't thinking about it.

There was nothing to think about. Silver was his king, and he was a guard, and that was all there was to it. It wouldn't do to dwell on a lingering gaze and ascribe it more meaning than it carried. Flint's mind had already proven itself to be unreliable and off-kilter due to exhaustion, so it stood to reason that it would lead him astray and have him believe his attentions were allowed or even reciprocated.

When he saw where, exactly, Silver had wanted to go all along, he almost _did_ knock him out. Not that the stream wasn't a welcomed sight, the gentle murmur of water relaxing the mind almost at once, but it also likely meant that Silver had intentions of getting into the water, and that was a trial Flint did not want to be submitted to.

"I—" He hesitated, looking around helplessly as Silver began to dispose of his footwear. "I'm afraid I cannot offer you much privacy. I need to remain here with you." He cursed inwardly, his stupid nerves making him state the obvious.

"That won't be a problem," he said, voice too neutral to be anything other than deliberate. 

"You will not be going for a swim, then?" He asked, torn between hope and confusion. Maybe he only planned to dip his toes. A bit of a long walk just for that, but the old Silver would have done it, if only just to spite him. It could be payback for a month forced to stay indoors.

"Oh, no. I very much intend to do so." His hand went to remove his belt, and Flint was momentarily rendered speechless as the implication dawned on him; Silver hadn't let _anyone_ see him in any state of undress since the leg. He carried the weight of its absence with such sorrow that he refused to receive help while getting dressed or bathing or whatever else might require him to be naked in front of another living being. It was a miracle Howell managed to tend to him at all.

And now.

Flint was baffled to say the least.

"—hich is why I brought you and not someone else." He paused, then added, "Plus, let's be honest. You wouldn't have let me go anywhere without you." The sound of the belt falling to the floor, and Flint found himself struggling to breathe.

He swallowed thickly, eyes fixed on Silver's head and no lower. "I will not apologize for doing my job," he said, even though technically any other guard could have escorted him.

Silver looked over his shoulder and raised an eyebrow that told him how aware he was of what was and wasn't Flint's job. Then he turned back around and continued undressing like it was the easiest thing in the world. 

Flint forced himself to stay put, unsure if his traitorous feet would walk away from Silver or towards him. The sight of his bare shoulder seemed to suggest he'd succumb to the latter if he wasn't careful, and he almost wished a strong wind would blow and take his caution with it.

But he cared far too much to indulge such thoughts, and he'd do well to remember it. No temporary heat was worth a permanent loss.

Overwhelmed, he focused on their surroundings instead, but his mind was stuck on Silver still. Beyond the revelation of smooth skin and strong muscles—Flint was too human to ignore that—he was witnessing an unveiling of a different kind. If lust had been the only problem, he might have managed; such cravings were straightforward, after all. But seeing Silver dispose of his clothes and bare himself to him made him feel—

What, exactly? He didn't have a word for it. Would it even be wise to search for one? 

He wondered if Silver knew the degree of power such a move was having on him; he doubted it, seeing as Flint himself could not fully grasp it. Was it being done knowingly? Purposefully? Silver was too smart for Flint to presume otherwise. But to achieve what? What point could this possibly prove between them?

"Where are you?" Silver asked, and Flint's gaze found him already in the stream, his wet curls giving him a siren-like appearance. 

He wasn't sure what the best course of action was. Acknowledge the significance of the moment? Ignore it? Whatever Silver's intent, the display had stirred something in him that would not be easily stifled.

Clearing his throat, if not truly his thoughts, he said simply, "Here."

A slow satisfied smile that reached Silver's blue eyes as he answered, "Good." 

He seemed to be saying something else entirely. 

***

Flint truly needed to be following Lord Rackham's increasingly convoluted speech, but his mind was otherwise occupied with the knowledge that he'd be joining Silver at the library after dinner for no reason other than to be in each other's company. He knew he was a convenient choice for Silver, someone he could talk to without putting his life at risk, but it warmed Flint all the same to be allowed to share a drink next to a crackling fireplace with him. Despite his rank, and almost despite himself, he was beginning to see a friend in Silver; whatever other complicated desires plagued his mind did not lessen this undeniable truth.

"—not even listening to me. I'm sorry, am I boring you?" Rackham crossed his arms and tried to look threatening, but it was a pointless endeavor without Bonny glaring by his side.

"You were speaking of King Vane, so I stopped listening."

"He's a crucial ally," Rackham defended himself. "And very much worth our attention."

"He's also a royal pain," Flint grunted, then amended, "but I thank you for procuring that alliance on the king's behalf. He appreciates it."

Rackham smirked at him knowingly. "I love it when you play nice for his sake." Then he winked, because he'd clearly left all his self-preservation at the door. "What I _meant_ to say, before I got only _briefly_ side-tracked by Vane, is that Dufresne is up to something."

That got his attention. If their suspicions pointed in the same direction, surely it was worth looking into. He leaned forward in his chair. "You should have just led with that."

"Yes, well, but Vane—"

He raised an impatient hand. "Lord Rackham, please. I will ban that name in this kingdom if you cannot focus. Do not test me."

He rolled his eyes and went on, "Money is being mismanaged. Or, more accurately, misplaced. To fund other endeavors."

"Couldn't it be something more predictable like whores and the like?"

He shook his head, "Max says he's been meeting with Hornigold in one of the more secluded brothels, but they never make use of the women's services." He licked his lips and elaborated, "I believe they have been hiring people to attempt against our beloved king and they have been using the crown's money to do it. Not very clever, but I assume they deem it poetic."

Flint scratched his cheek, taking in what Rackham was saying. "So you think them responsible for _all_ the attacks?"

He cocked his head. "More than likely, yes."

"But if they're stealing the money, why have they literally hired the most incompetent assassins for the job?" Surely they could afford the best.

Rackham raised an eyebrow, clearly thinking the answer to be obvious. "They _have_ hired the best, Flint. Need I remind you that the last one nearly succeeded?"

He felt his hand clench into a fist and had to force himself to relax his fingers one by one. "And yet I stopped him, like I did the rest."

He waved expansively at him. "That is your merit entirely. The king escaped with his life only because of your...intuition." The pause made Flint believe he meant something else, but he knew better than to press him about it; Rackham would actually tell him, and that would in turn lead to a conversation he was adamant to avoid. 

He blinked away the memory of a stream and a smile.

"Fine," he conceded. "So they're good and I'm better. All the same, this has gone on for too long. We must put an end to it."

He pursed his lips like it would stop his bad news. "The trouble is that I have yet to find any solid proof."

Flint sneered, "Fuck proof. I'll kill them right now and bury this plot for good."

Rackham looked at him with a mix of exasperation and amusement, "I do see why Anne does not despise you. You're made of the same fucking cloth." He sighed with the emotion of a long-suffering lover. "Why is murder always your first choice?"

"Because it's efficient! Why complicate it when it can be over so simply?"

He shook his head. "A trial and public execution would make for a better message. An example of justice but also a deterrent for those who might be tempted to flirt with traitorous thoughts."

Flint understood the politics behind it, but he could not be bothered to care. "That will take too fucking long, and you said you don't have proof."

"I don't have proof _yet,_ my easily enraged fellow. There is bound to be a trail somewhere."

"Time is a luxury we can't afford if it might be paid with the king's life."

He looked like he wanted to keep arguing, but eventually he exhaled deeply and raised his arms in resignation. "Talk to His Majesty and let me know what is to be done. I know better than to stand in a room with the two of you and think I can win, so I won't waste my breath."

Flint nodded sharply. "I'll talk to him tonight."

Rackham bit the inside of his cheek, his displeasure clear. "They're going to end up dead, aren't they?"

"Most likely, yes." Flint raised a hand, aiming to soften the blow of ignored advice. "Do not think it personal. Understand that his safety will always come first, consequences be damned."

"Yes." Rackham looked down at his sleeve, fixing it before murmuring, "I'm quite aware of that." 

  
  


***

When Flint made it to the library, the door open and inviting, he found Silver reading pleasantly by the fire and Bonny sharpening her knife near the window. The air was quiet except for the sound of her blade, and Flint would have found the habit unsettling if he hadn't come to truly trust her in recent times. 

He stood by the door for a moment, savoring the rare stillness in a world so full of noise. For a room so big, it somehow managed to nurse warmth into its high walls. Then again, Flint knew half the heat would be gone once Silver retreated for the night.

"Flint's here," she announced, putting an end to Flint's musings.

Silver blinked, looking up and immediately putting his reading aside. He offered him such a genuine smile that it made Flint forget his station and half his name.

Bonny cleared her throat and grunted, "I'll be outside with Read."

He was glad for the privacy, and yet the second she was gone, he hesitated. A part of him wanted to inform Silver of Rackham's discovery at once, but his more selfish and reckless side wanted to keep things light before bringing up the plot; after all, there was no real danger as long as Flint and Silver were together. He wanted to leave duty at the door for an hour and forget that there were lines and limits to their relationship. 

"I know that look." Silver cocked an eyebrow at him. "Say what you must, so that we might be spared the pretense." He pointed at the armchair next to him in invitation.

"I—" He inclined his head, conceding the point, albeit a bit thrown off at being read so plainly. No way out of it, then. He sat down as he mulled over the words. "Rackham has but confirmed that Dufresne and Hornigold are behind the attacks."

Half-bathed in firelight, Silver exhaled slowly through his nose. "I see."

"He wants a public trial and execution."

He searched Flint's face. "You disagree with him."

A single nod, his hand gripping the armrest before he could stop himself. "We can't wait that long. Your life is too important."

Silver snorted, eyes alight. "You've already made up your mind about this, haven't you? You seek my approval for whatever your plan is, but you'll do without it just the same."

He leaned forward, now putting his hand on Silver's armrest instead. "They die tonight, Silver. I would be a poor excuse for a guard if I allowed traitors to walk this soil so freely."

Silver's gaze turned curious. "Why tell me about it and allow me the chance to disagree? Why not kill them directly?"

Flint pursed his lips, honesty seeping through regardless. "It does not sit well with me, going behind your back. Not now."

His brow furrowed. "Trying to kill me and killing to protect me are not quite the same thing."

Flint ignored the comment in favor of what truly mattered. "Do you agree with me? Do I have your blessing?" Much like Silver had said, he'd go ahead without it, would endure whatever hell the king unleashed on him him later, but he'd much rather be of the same mind and there was no denying that.

He cocked his head thoughtfully. "I agree that they must die."

Flint frowned. "But?"

A determined look on his face. "But not by your hand."

He blinked in confusion, recovering quickly as he suggested, "Bonny will have no qualms about it, I'm sure." Through gritted teeth, he added, "Or Hands." 

Silver swallowed, fiddling with his rings as he said, "Leave it to me."

His eyes widened. "You want to kill them _yourself_?" He carded his fingers through his hair as he summoned the proper words to protest. "No offense, but you're not the best at fighting. It's too high a risk—"

"I'll do it. Tomorrow." His tone allowed no further argument. "They've hidden behind assassins like the cowards they are, but I will not be labeled so." He drew closer slowly, his breath warm against Flint’s skin. "They will meet their end on _my_ terms."

Flint hesitated, both impressed and worried at once. He understood the need to wield the sword of justice more than most people in the kingdom. "On one condition."

Silver's lips turned upwards, amusement clear in his tone as he said, "There's always something with you. What is it?"

"That you allow me to be there, and that you not protest or resist if I'm forced to intervene." Silver’s terms would embrace Flint’s terms, or there would be no terms at all.

An offended eyebrow. "Do you think so lowly of me that you're already planning my rescue?"

He replied honestly, "On the contrary. I think too highly of you to allow such a thing without taking proper precautions."

His face softened at that. "Very well."

  
  


***

Anger, hot and alive as his fist connected with Dufresne's jaw. 

The room held its breath, and Silver's world shifted on its axis the second he realized how the scene would unfold. 

A crack, bones and blood and all things human oozing out of that pathetic excuse for a man.

Pain, snaking up what remained of his leg and shattering all of Silver's senses except the one that told him to keep it together for a handful more minutes.

A gasp. 

A curse from Hornigold from far away and right next to him. Silver's quick hand on the trigger before the traitor could so much as think of drawing his own gun. A shot, and another. One from Silver, the other undoubtedly from Flint's own gun.

And then it was over.

Stunned silence followed by Silver's voice, foreign and detached, as he delivered a witty line he would not remember come the morrow.

A look at Flint. No words, just a subtle movement of Silver's head, and away they went, leaving everyone behind to play their own parts in the aftermath of his actions.

*

Silver held onto Flint as they made their way to his chambers. He hadn't planned to kill them—kill Dufresne—in such a way, and yet as the moment drew closer it almost seemed to have been orchestrated so. The memory would follow him for as long as he lived, yet he could not summon the barest hint of regret. 

It appeared to him a curious thing, to find such release when stepping into the darkness. He hadn't known what to expect, but the exhilarating rush coursing through him was far from what he could have foreseen. 

He only hoped he'd be able to mind his step going forward.

Flint closed the heavy door behind them and glanced worriedly at his leg. Even if he'd managed to hide it from everyone else, of course his pain had been obvious to Flint from the second that skull had been cracked. "Let me take care of it."

 _Let me take care of you_ , he didn't say, and yet that was what Silver heard. It was a wonderful and terrible thing to hear.

He bit the inside of his cheek, debating whether to open that door or leave it firmly shut. The stream had been enough of an exercise in vulnerability to last him a lifetime, and yet he found himself reluctant to turn him down.

At last, Silver nodded hesitantly, and Flint helped him to the bed before going over to the desk near the window and fetching a basin and a cloth.

As he crouched before Silver, Flint stopped only for a moment before looking up and asking softly, "Would you rather I cut the fabric, or do you want to take them off?"

Silver could not bare to expose himself one layer further. "Cut it."

A nod, and Flint's gentle hand on his dagger as it went through the supple material, exposing where prosthetic met stump.

As Flint began to remove the leg and Silver fought the burning instinct to flee, it dawned on him that the basin had not been there before. "You were prepared for this."

He put the leg on the floor and shook his head as he met Silver's eye. "Not for _this_ in particular, but I made arrangements." 

"Arrangements?" Flint's hands took hold of the cloth and dipped it in the water, squeezing to remove the excess; Silver was mesmerized by the glint of his rings and the unexpected softness of the movement. Even with the rather dim lighting of dusk, he could appreciate how beautiful his hands were. How nice they would feel on his skin in a more inviting context.

"I was ready to let you kill them, and I was ready to kill them myself." The cloth touched his raw skin, the pain bordering on agonizing and threatening to shatter Silver's control. "Ready with horses to flee, if it somehow came to that." 

Flint's gaze was focused entirely on his leg, allowing Silver to look at him freely. He licked his lips before asking, "And this? What event did you foresee involving this?"

He did look up at that, his hands still holding the cloth to his skin. "The stains that would linger after the deed was done." Then he frowned, his fingers actually brushing against his skin for a second before muttering, "The physical ones, anyway."

"I enjoyed it," he whispered, and Flint's hand stilled. "I would not have anticipated it, and yet there is no denying that it felt good."

He nodded, understanding at once, yet changed the subject to say, "I'm telling Howell to come here first thing in the morning."

"I'm fine." He'd be fine, eventually, which was the same thing.

Flint pressed a firm finger to his stump and the wave of pain was so sharp and sudden he did not have time to conceal it. "Lie to my face again, I dare you." 

"I'll be fine by tomorrow, Fl—"

" _Don't_." He stood up abruptly, and Silver thought he was about to leave before he watched him rummage through his drawer and come back with the medicinal oil he used for his leg after particularly trying days.

He crouched again and opened it, clearly ready to administer it himself before Silver grabbed his wrist with lightning speed. Flint's eyes widened as he looked up, and Silver forced himself to keep his features even as he whispered, "No."

"You need it," he pointed out, but there was now uncertainty in his tone. Like he was suddenly aware that he was kneeling in front of his king's bed, hands all but ready to touch him.

Too much, too fast, too real.

Silver wanted him more than he'd ever wanted anything in his rotten life, but he could not grant him this. He'd given too much already. He should have refused the cloth, too, should have taken care of it himself. 

A harsh exhale. "I'll do it myself."

What followed was almost painful to watch, and yet Silver could not exactly tell what was going through Flint's mind as he relinquished the vial and stood up.

"Of course," he said roughly, his eyes anywhere but on him. "I will take my leave, then."

Silver pursed his lips, needing to explain himself before Flint misunderstood him but unsure how to do so. In the end, he said, "I'd rather you stayed, if you don't mind." 

He seemed lost at that, eyes searching Silver's face. "But I—"

"You meant no harm," Silver spoke reassuringly. "And I'd appreciate not being alone." _I'd appreciate your company, only yours, for as long as you'll give it,_ he didn't say. Then he realized it had probably been an exhausting day for Flint and added, "Although if you wish to retire for the day, I understand."

Flint considered this, biting his lip before offering, "Shall I pour us a drink?"

Silver smiled, dizzy with relief, suddenly reminded that they had cause to celebrate. "Wouldn't be as sweet a victory without it."

Flint's shoulders lost some of their tension at that, and as he turned away and busied himself with procuring wine and goblets, Silver sloppily poured some oil and pressed his fingers into the tender flesh of his leg. 

Either the timing was perfect or Flint deliberately waited for him to be done, because he was wiping his hands on the sheets when a goblet was extended to him. Flint dragged a chair to sit by him—further than usual, Silver couldn't help but notice—and raised his cup. "To your health," he toasted.

Silver cocked his head and replied, "To our partnership."

There was a question in Flint's eyes at his words, or perhaps even an answer. Either way, it was gone too fast to decipher. And so they drank, and Silver let the alcohol wash away the level of openness he'd once again displayed in front of James Flint. Allowing too much. Allowing too little. 

He wanted to never do it again.

He wanted to do it for the rest of his life.

It was a complex thing, being John Silver. He desired the closeness, and the trust, and the friendship he could taste in the air, but there were limits to himself that even he could not devise. Some parts of himself were out of bounds to everyone, Silver most definitely included. His past, nothing but a faint echo, a long dead spark never to catch fire again. His present, though, was harder to define. Where the boundaries were, where the limits were drawn, it was nothing but fog.

He'd thought he'd never lay trust in a man again, and he'd put his life in Flint's hands more times than he could count. He'd thought nobody would ever see him hold a crutch, would never allow anyone to think him weak, only for Flint to be an exception. And yet he wasn't, because he could tell that Flint did not consider him weak, not even lying in bed half-dead. 

How many more layers could he be disposed of? How much was his to shed, to show, before it became unbearable? And when that limit was found, what of Flint's reaction? Would he want Silver's friendship still? Or, if fate gifted Silver this one thing, the company and the love he so craved, would it be given only on condition that he revealed himself fully?

Flint's hand stood still in the air, as if meaning to touch but fearing he would not be welcomed. He cleared his throat as he let it fall, asking, "Where are you?"

He forced himself to come back to the present. To Flint's figure, to his solid frame and his caring eyes. "I'm right here," he said.

Flint smiled, so openly and genuinely that it stole Silver's breath. "Good," he whispered.

And just like that, Silver knew. Not with words or plans or promises, but he knew that he'd walk the path carved into Flint's green eyes and come away richer for it. 

And he knew he'd wait, a day, a month, a year, for Flint to realize what was so clear in his mind already. That they belonged together, beyond debt or duty, and no road was worth travelling in the absence of the other. That they were partners, and they were friends, and, maybe, hopefully, they could choose to be something else too.

He would wait, and he would hope that John Silver, whatever parts of him Flint got to know, would be enough.


End file.
